


Bows and Beaus

by PuzzleDragon



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuzzleDragon/pseuds/PuzzleDragon
Summary: If Anne could ask anyone else for help retying the bow she can't quite reach on the back of her costume, she would. But as it turns out, Phillip Carlyle is the only one who has his hands free at the moment.





	Bows and Beaus

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written for these two. Set sometime before the trip to England, maybe a month or so after Phillip joins the circus. Enjoy!

“Damn it,” Anne mutters under her breath, twisting back and forth in front of her vanity mirror. In her reflection, she sees the ribbons of one of the bows that run down the back of her costume dangling limply, having fallen undone since the start of the show. She cranes her neck to look over her shoulder in the mirror, her arms at crooked angles, trying unsuccessfully to catch the loose ends between her fingers.

Anne takes pride in her appearance, especially during the show. She knows every eye in the audience will be on her when she soars through the air, so going out with her costume looking anything less than perfect is just unacceptable. She can hear her cue fast approaching, but as flexible as she is, she can’t tie a bow behind her back with any finesse and there is not nearly enough time to strip off her leotard and redo the ties herself.

Glancing around the dressing area, Anne can tell that none of the other performers have the time to help her. Everyone is either rushing to make their own entrances or already dancing in the ring. Anyone who’s between acts is wrangling animals, tracking down props, or dealing with their own wardrobe issues. W.D. is no where to be seen, having already climbed the hidden stairs to his starting platform. Going to him for help would mean she’d be caught on the wrong side of the stage for their introduction. She’d miss her cue, and she refuses to take that kind of risk in the middle of a show.

That’s when her eyes land on the only person seemingly unoccupied during the chaos of the show in progress: Phillip Carlyle. He isn’t rushing anywhere and, since he's not a performer, he isn’t waiting tensely for his moment in the spotlight. No, instead he’s just standing there, leaning against a support column, taking everything in with a look of near-childlike wonder on his face.

Anne sighs. He’s her only option. The show must go on, and sometimes that means swallowing her pride and asking the former-socialite for help.

It’s not that she’s been avoiding him exactly, but she hasn’t been seeking out his company either. Ever since the rich boy ran away with the circus, she’s been as polite as the situation demanded whenever she’s had to speak with him. But if one of the lions could tie knots, she would have gone to them instead.

She lifts her head, squares her shoulders, and walks toward him with purpose. Her feet in their golden slippers are light on the worn wood flooring but her steps do not falter as she approaches him.

For once, he’s not looking in her direction, so she has to speak to get his attention.

“Mr. Carlyle.”

He starts at the sound of her voice, clearly caught off-guard, but he turns toward her and smiles. His whole face just seems to light up at the sight of her. The look in his eyes—too bright, too handsome, too _blue_ —makes something deep in her chest flutter ever so slightly and she forces the feeling back down. No matter how warm his smile is or how kind his eyes are, she refuses to be derailed by him.

“Miss Wheeler,” he replies in greeting. He’s the only one who calls her that. Within the circus, she is Anne to everyone, even Barnum. They’re all on equal footing here. Outside the walls of their performance space, she has heard dozens of epithets thrown in her direction, ranging from the passive aggressive to the downright disgusting. But none of them have ever been spoken in the genuinely respectful tone Phillip Carlyle uses to call her “Miss.” It feels odd—unknown and unfamiliar—but she never bothers to correct him. The formality is somehow endearing. Against her own better judgement, it makes her feel special. 

He really is too charming for his own good.

“I hate to bother you, Mr. Carlyle, but I need to ask you for a quick favor.” She keeps her voice even and her words quick, hoping the hint of a courteous, preemptive apology will coax out of a bit of chivalry from his supposedly well-bred manners. 

“It’s no bother at all. What do you need?”

His willingness to help is so sincere, it catches Anne by surprise. She had expected, at most, a begrudging agreement to her request, not this kind of glad cooperation. She was taught from a young age that white men—especially handsome ones who came from money—do not defer to the wants and needs of women like her. But here he is, the smile on his face spelling out clearly that he is willing to assist and eager to please.

“The top bow on the back of my costume came undone and I can’t seem to reach it to retie it. I need to be on my platform in three minutes; would you mind fixing it for me?”

She says it in a rush, trying to muscle her way past the embarrassment of needing his help at all, but her voice doesn’t shake. She refuses to let it.

“I’d be happy to,” he responds, his smile never faltering.

He doesn’t ask her to turn around for him, but she does it anyway. They don’t have the time to waste on deciding who will move to accommodate the other, so she makes the decision for both of them. She feels surprisingly vulnerable standing with her back to him. Wearing nothing but her purple leotard, she has more skin on display than he probably knows what to do with. While her costume makes her feel beautiful and powerful onstage and there is no shame among performers behind the curtain, having only his eyes on her feels different somehow. Terrifying and invigorating all at once. She compensates for her own uneasiness by standing a little taller, refusing to slouch or shy away from his gaze despite her quickening heartbeat.

He steps forward, just close enough that she can feel his presence standing behind her. Apparently, Phillip was actually raised a gentleman and even when given an open invitation, he does not invade her personal space beyond what is strictly necessary.

He takes the ends of the ribbon in each hand and she feels the slight tug of the fabric across her lower back.

“Just a simple bow, right?” he asks, his voice close behind her and his breath hot as it brushes against her ear. It sends a small shiver down her spine and she hopes more than anything that the blush she can feel slowly creeping across her cheeks isn’t also visible on the back of her neck.

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice softer than she intended, “Like the other ones.”

“I think I can manage that.” 

She can feel the movement of his hands through her costume as he pulls on the ribbons and starts to form a loop with one of them. She’s surprised to find that his hands are shaking ever so slightly.

 _He’s nervous,_  she realizes. Phillip Carlyle, the poster child of privilege who ran away with the circus and hasn't looked back yet, is nervous about tying a pretty little bow on her costume and being this close to her while he does it. The thought brings a hesitant smile to her lips as she bites back a laugh.

He presses his fingers against her back to hold one loop in place while he ties the other piece of ribbon around it. Her breath catches in her throat at the pressure against her spine. Even through the satin of her costume, she can tell that his hands are too soft. Before joining the circus, he’d never worked a day in his life and his short time spent backstage has not yet given him calluses. She wants to hate him for it, for all that his unhardened skin represents, but she can’t bring herself to. Somehow, this type of touch feels like a luxury she’s never gotten to experience before and she can’t help but revel in it.

As he tugs the loops of the bow taut, his knuckles brush against the small of her back and for a second, her eyes flutter closed at the sensation. She has never been touched so gently before, with so much care. She can tell he’s making a real effort not to make her uncomfortable, to respect her and not touch her any more than he needs to. She is grateful for his sense of propriety, but the brush of his fingers against her back is so fleeting that some small part of her is disappointed by how brief it is.

He deftly smooths the completed bow down across her back, making sure it lies flat like the others that march down her costume in a single, straight line. That disappointed part of her wants him to prolong the contact, to let his hands drift down farther and settle firmly on her hips. For his too soft palms to grip her tightly and make her feel cherished. For him to— _No._

Her common sense quickly shouts down that small, treacherous piece of her mind and brings her back to reality. There’s a show going on and she’s standing in the wings, basking in the barely-there touch of Phillip Caralyle when she should be getting ready to fly. Based on the blare of the orchestra, she’s got just under two minutes to make it to her platform. 

“There, all set,” he says from behind her, and perhaps it’s only the current overactive state of her imagination, but she thinks she hears his voice tremble. It shouldn’t make her smile. She smiles anyway.

She turns to face him again, feeling braver now than when she first approached him.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlyle,” she says, “But I need to go make an entrance.”

“Make it a good one.”

“I always do,” she replies, her smile proud and her voice edging dangerously close to teasing. She brushes past him without a second thought and climbs the stairs two at a time to make sure she reaches her place with a minute to spare.

She stands alone on her platform, staring out across the performance space to where she knows her brother is waiting on the other side of the ring. She’s poised just out of sight, shrouded in shadows as the cheers of the crowd far below die down enough for Barnum to introduce the next act.

Still hidden from view in the safety of the rafters, she carefully twists one arm behind her back. Her fingers, calloused from years of training and performance, brush against the perfectly tied bow that rests halfway down her spine. She lets her hand drop back to her side and smiles to herself. If she closes her eyes, the tension of the ribbons almost feels like his hand is pressed against the small of her back, urging her forward. She entertains the thought for only a moment before she pulls herself back to reality—to the roar of the audience and the freedom of open air in front of her—and steps into the light.


End file.
